


Tiempo Malo

by Ravenshell



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 1987), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, OC focus, Poisoning, Revenge, Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenshell/pseuds/Ravenshell
Summary: Working with the Purple Dragon gang to bring in some extra cash, balding 40-something Gary finds himself captured and turned in to the police, bringing the pieces of his life crashing down around his ears and sparking a burning desire for vengeance upon the mutant turtle who was the source: Donatello.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Tiempo Malo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dondena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dondena/gifts).



> A request and plot idea by dondena. Set in the '87 Turtleverse.
> 
> I've had a bad time myself with the formatting on this story... please excuse any stray line-breaks I haven't managed to catch.

Revenge was a dish best served cold, on a hot and spicy pizza, and Gary was at long last about to get his. 

Three years before, his wife at the time, Phyllis, had demanded a better lifestyle than the one-bedroom apartment they could barely afford the rent for with their day jobs. No, not in the suburbs, that was too far. No, not rent-controlled… what kind of people did he think they were? She didn’t care how he got the money, she said quite explicitly, as long as he got it.

So he asked around, and got a lead on a job. The gig started at an ungodly hour of night, and his coworkers seemed a little shifty, with various states of shaved heads and brightly-dyed hair and a penchant for dragon tattoos, specifically purple ones, but money was money, right? 

He was assured that the job was a wellspring of cashola, and that was good enough for him, even if it meant relieving an apartment of any worthwhile contents while the owners were out of town.

Phyllis didn’t want to know the details. She was happy enough to move into a flat uptown and positively cooed over the pretty jewels he sometimes snuck her from jobs. The rest went to a reliable fence, and his share of the moolah was funneled back to him through the gang.

Yes, Gary was loath to admit, he was participating in gang-related activity. He didn’t really consider himself part of the gang… a somewhat doughy, balding man in his mid-forties, he didn’t much fit in with the teen gangsters, but he did his share of the heavy lifting and they got along, referring to him affectionately as Pops and Father Time, or _Tiempo_ if it was one of the Latino kids. He bit the bullet and went under the needle, getting a big purple dragon tattoo across his back. Phyllis didn’t care for it. But he explained that being on the leader’s good side got him better gigs, and that kept their cash flowing rather than trickling, so she shut up and put up.

And flow it did. For a while.

Until the mutant found them.

It was another typical gig… wait until the owners were out for the evening, force the locks, and clean the place out of its valuables. But in the middle of the job, the room filled with smoke, and with a thunk, something impacted the back of his skull, and into blackness he went.

The hit must not have been too hard, because Gary came around not long after, tied up with his comrades by a length of rope, in complicated knots none of them would ever possibly manage to untie. The bizarre creature crouched beside them, going through the Dragons’ pockets for jewelry and trinkets that obviously didn’t belong to them. 

Gary’s groan of pain caught in his throat, and he was glad it did, because it meant he could play dead while the odd-shaped man searched him. He hazarded cracking one eye open when the weird monster had its back turned. That was when he took in the shell and the purple bandana.

 _Oh, crap_ , he thought. _That means it’s one of those hero turtles the whole city loves so much…_

A high-pitched ringing sounded, and the mutant pulled some sort of phone from its side.

“What’s up, Leonardo?”

“Donatello, what’s your status?” a second young voice came from the device.

“Just tying up a few loose ends at a burglary in Brooklyn.”

“Great. Finish up there and meet me in Chinatown. I want your opinion on something. It looks like the Foot may be up to tricks again.”

“Again? Man, those guys are like cockroaches! I should develop a spray!”

A second voice came on the line. “After that, are we heading to Vinnie’s for pizza? This turtle’s tummy is getting mondo growly…”

“No kidding,” said a third. “I can hear that roar all the way in Manhattan!”

“Guys, priorities,” the original voice chided. “Ninja business first, Vinnie’s later. Meet by theDragon Gates. Over and out.”

The turtle clicked his device shut and made a noise of distaste before opening it again and punching another button. “Hello, police?” he said, and Gary’s head shot up to stare at him. Reality dawned. The turtle was calling the police! Giving them the address! They would come here, find the Dragons, and put them all in jail! He started to panic, fighting against the ropes that had him bound tight.

The turtle creature didn’t care, certainly noticing the amount of shuffling from the tied thieves’ direction as sirens started wailing, heading their direction. It simply hopped out the window, shut it, and fiddled with some contraption that caused its lock to snap back into place.

Gary glared, watching him go, the color purple and the name Donatello etched into his mind in vibrant streaks.

…………

The investigation and trial did not go well… the watch he’d kept from one of his prior jobs linked him to the crime at the owner’s address, and one of his captured colleagues spilled the beans about him being involved in a number of other burglaries, totaling five charges of grandlarceny. The lawyer afforded to him by the state advised he plead guilty, so the sentence would be lessened. Still, that earned him five and a half years in jail. Phyllis made no attempt to post bail for him, even if pawning a couple of the necklaces and rings he’d given her would have covered it. Now, apparently, she cared quite a bit where the money had come from, and had quite the opinion about it. In fact, the only time she came to visit was to say that she’d filed for divorce, and was bringing by the papers for him to sign. He’d lost his job, he’d lost his wife, and now he was marked as a felon by the law for life, all thanks to that wretched Donatello!

He made it out in under three years, for good behavior, on parole. But in that time, he’d developed a deep, burning desire for vengeance, while he himself became quite distant and cold. His fellow inmates agreed, whoever was on El Tiempo’s shit list was in for a bad time… _un malo tiempo_.

Once he was out and settled—back to a one-bedroom apartment, this time on his lonesome—he looked up the second name that was etched on his soul now from his close encounter of the turtle kind: Vinnie’s Pizzeria. He was in luck; they were hiring! 

Gary honestly didn’t know the first thing about being a pizza chef, but was attentive and diligent in learning the trade, eager, and Vinnie was a kind man who knew it wasn’t easy for a felon to get back on his feet, so he was supportive in helping Gary achieve what seemed to be his dream. The restaurant owner appreciated having someone who would cover any shift, especially swing and night shifts. And Gary seemed to be an instant fan of the Turtles, who frequented the pizzeria in the odd hours. 

The new chef was specifically intrigued by Donatello, asking Vinnie everything he knew about the young genius scientist. He very pointedly wanted to memorize the recipe for the purple-banded turtle’s favorite pizza. As far as Vinnie could guess, Gary either had a hefty crush on Donnie, or had a great desire for—what was that Japanese word the anime fan kids used?—his sam-pie… to notice him.

Vinnie sighed; he wouldn’t judge… Gary’s heart was his own business, and as long as he didn’t let his romantic life interfere with serving the other customers, he’d let it lie.

…………

Of course, when he wasn’t kissing the unsuspecting shop owner’s ass for intel and churning out pizzas like it was his life’s calling, Gary had another pet project at home. Well… he would hardly call them pets. He upended a box of dead rats, twisted back on themselves in grotesque expressions of agony, into a dumpster, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. 

Gary had to admit, he had little grasp of medical science. But with some experimentation, he was slowly learning enough about poisons for his purpose. Developing his own, oh, that took a while. It had to be close to clear, undetectable in odor, taste, and consistency on a pizza, and cause maximum suffering, while not being potent enough to kill. That was a line he wasn’t willing to cross… plus, you wouldn’t have a second opportunity for more torture if the subject didn’t survive.

It didn’t bode well for the rats. It didn’t bode well for Donatello either, though, and that was his aim.

And then one day, just like that, he had it! His test subject screeched and flailed around and foamed at the mouth for several hours, but then seemed to recover. This concoction met all his conditions! He transferred it to a small vial and stuck it in the pocket of his coat. Now he just had to wait for his shift, and for the Turtles to show up.

Never had he been so eager to go to work. 

Vinnie commented on how chipper he was that evening. “Something good happen with you?”

“Not yet,” Gary grinned back, almost manic, realized this, and tried to rein it in a little. “Just got a feeling it’s about to.”

Vinnie clapped him on the shoulder with a knowing grin. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

Gary beamed back, but winced as he turned away. Vinnie was an upstanding guy, and Gary kind of felt like a jerk using him like this, but it was the only way… his only access to the Turtles. The only chance he was ever going to get, and he was going to take it. He palmed the vial and slipped it into his apron pocket.

He nearly went ballistic every time the shop bell rang. He was about to pop out of his skin by the time the Turtles finally arrived and their familiar favorites came up on the order slip. It was all he could do to keep from cackling maniacally as he put the pizzas together for their unusual regulars.

“Patty-cake, patty-cake, baker’s man,” he chanted, adrenaline sizzling through his veins like a live wire. “Bake me a pie as fast a you can! Roll it, and toss it, and mark it with a D,” he sang as he tossed the dough into shape and traced the letter into it with red sauce before spreading it across the crust, adding his special “ingredient,” then covering it with cheese and toppings. “…And put it in the oven for turtle Donnie!” he finished with a triumphant yell as he popped the pizza into the brick oven to bake.

When it was baked to perfection, just like Vinnie had taught him, he carefully lifted the crust, slipping his calling card underneath.

He set the pizza boxes on the pass-through for the wait staff to pick them up, and was untying his apron to leave it behind, when his boss caught him by the elbow. “Don’tcha wanna take itout to them yourself?”

Gary’s stomach did a reasonable impression of a frog in his gut. Kind, helpful Vinnie… It would just end up looking more suspicious if he said no, at this point, so he swallowed his Adam’s apple, went through the service door and picked the boxes up on the other side to carry them to the table with the four clamoring teenage turtles.

“Let’s see.. I got one Triple Veggie Supreme,” he said, handing the pizza off to Leonardo, “one artichoke, anchovy, strawberries and… hot fudge?” He had to stop and marvel at that, even though he’d just made it himself. The Turtles’ flavor profiles would turn even an experienced gourmand's stomach, but none more so than the adventurous Michelangelo.

“Give it here, bro!” the turtle said, reaching for the noxious concoction. Gary wondered if he should have bothered with the poison or just switched Michelangelo’s pizza with Donatello’s. Then again, the point had been _not_ to kill him…

“I’ve got an XXL Meaty McMeat Meat…” 

The turtle in red reached for the box. “…And a diet cola, please. I have to watch my figure…”

“…and, for Mister Donatello, one fructti di mare, jalapeños and, sriracha sauce!”

Don stared up into the man’s face, gaze held by the intense look in his eyes. It was hard to tell against the olive green, but he may have even blushed a little. “Thank you.”

Michelangelo broke their moment by lunging for Don’s pizza and opening the box. “I’ll have some of that!”

Gary slammed the box lid shut, holding his hand on it. “That’s not for you, it’s for him!” he snarled icily in Mikey’s face, to the challenging “Ooooohhh!”s of the other turtles.

“Don’t worry… We’ll keep Garbage Guts here away from it,” Raphael promised, with a sideways nod at Michelangelo.

Donatello eased the box out from under Gary’s grasp. “I’m sure I’ll enjoy every bite!”

He eased back, assured the fish was heartily nibbling at his bait. “I hope you will!” he said, retreating into the kitchen slowly enough to not arouse suspicion, though his legs picked up more and more speed as he charged past Vinnie. “Taking my break!” he hollered, tossing the loop of his apron at the peg on the wall and missing by a mile as he darted out, not giving it a second glance, knowing full well he wouldn’t be returning. 

He dashed down the alley to the next block over, then crossed the street to a mirrored alleyway on the other side, as fast as his pudgy, middle-aged body would allow. There he climbed a stack of boxes to a fire escape ladder it had taken a dozen tries to hook and pull down earlier in the day. He ascended three floors and crouched behind a large potted plant that was definitely against fire code, but gave him good cover, and pulled out a pair of binoculars to look through the front window at Vinnie’s.

…………

BUUUUUUUUURRRRRPPPP!!!

“Ew, Donatello!”

“Excuse you!” the leader prompted.

Donnie clutched at his stomach. “Guys… I don’t feel so well…”

“No, really? After all that hot stuff, you’ve got an ulcer?” Raph joked.

“I have this combo all the time… you know it doesn’t ever bother—owww!” The turtle bent over his stomach as much as his plastron would allow. His brothers in turn bent over him, dropping the jokes once it became apparent the situation was serious. 

Leo flagged the owner down. “Vinnie! Check and see if your clams are still good!” 

The man dashed away to the back as ordered, also calling for his employee, who hadn’t made an appearance since delivering the pizzas to their table.

“Okay, Donatello… Let’s just get you to the van…” Mikey started, getting Don to his feet, but almost lost him as his brother suddenly canted to the other side. Thankfully, Raph was there to catch him.

“Ya all right, Don?” Raph asked, righting him. 

Donatello swung his staff from his shell to help his balance. “Dizzy… and vision’s cloudy… and—!” His summary was cut off by a bout of retching, followed by another round of the turtle clutching his lower shell in agony.

Leo’s gaze went icy. “Just a guess, but dizziness and vertigo aren’t symptoms of food poisoning?” Don shook his head weakly, then urped again, catching it with a hand over his mouth. Something amiss happened to catch the leader’s eye… He picked up the slip of paper from Don’s pizza box. “‘Courtesy _El Tiempo Malo_ ’…”

“‘The Bad Time?’” Mikey translated as he helped Don toward the back entrance. “Whoa, sounds like a super-villain! I bet his super-power is warping time or something!”

“Michelangelo,” Leo warned, “not right now! Let’s just get Donatello back to the lair so he can tell us what to do…”

Vinnie was in the back alley, next to where the Turtle Van was parked, calling for the missing Gary. “I just don’t understand why he would do somethin’ like this!” he commented to Leonardo. “He just seemed like a perfectly nice, ordinary guy…”

Leo gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Sometimes looks can be deceiving. Maybe Gary didn’t do it at all, or he’s in trouble, or someone’s forcing him into it, or something’s wrong and he’s just scared.”

Vinnie shot him a grateful look, saying, “If anyone’s the poster children for looks being deceiving, it’s you boys.”

“We’ll track him down once we get Donatello taken care of, and get to the bottom of this.” And with that, the turtle leapt into the van as it roared to life and out of the alley.

“Hey, Fearless Leader, do you really think there’s any chance that Gary guy wasn’t the one that poisoned Donatello’s food?” Raph asked as he drove.

“Oh no, I’m almost sure it was him. Some of those tells you could see a mile away, running away afterward being the least of them… didn’t you notice? Unless any evidence to the contrary turns up, he’s our guy.”

“Then why all the ‘innocent until proven guilty’ talk with Vinnie?”

Leo winced. “Because Vinnie’s a great guy. Preserving some of that hope will maybe soften the blow for him when we bring _El Tiempo Malo_ in.”

The van lurched over a bump in the road. Don, looking panicked, gagged and spilled his guts into the waiting drink cup Mikey held for him.

“Watch those speed bumps, bro. Donatello’s stomach doesn’t agree with ‘em.”

“Actually, may-maybe the more—ugh—the more I throw up, the less—urk!—poison my system will absorb…”

Michelangelo switched out Don’s puke receptacle for a much larger empty cup and gave a thumbs-up. “Nail ‘em all, Raphael!”

As the van suddenly wove haphazardly around the road, the ill turtle complained between burps, “Wait, no! Just because I have to throw up doesn’t mean I want to ride the Raphael rollercoaster!” Another moment, and he lost his battle with nausea again.

“Heh, heh, sorry…” the wisecracker apologized, easing up on the gas pedal slightly.

“Maybe tone it down to only two thirds of all the potholes on the road,” Leo suggested. Raph shrugged, and the ride smoothed out considerably.

……………

Reaching the lair, the turtles walked their ill brother to Donatello’s medbay. Upon hearing their concerned voices, Master Splinter followed them in, where Raphael and Michelangelo were helping Don to the medical cot and slowly tilting him back and onto his side, where he could easily reach a chuck-bucket.

“What has happened?” the rat-man demanded of his sons as they bustled about, making Donnie comfortable, and searching through their accumulated supplies.

“Someone poisoned Donatello’s pizza,” Leo summarized shortly. “Donatello, tell us what we need to give you.”

The poisoned-pizza victim didn’t answer immediately, groaning as his stomach rolled, cramped, and delivered another load of half-processed pizza into the waiting bucket. Raphael leaned over Don’s shell, giving a disgusted, sympathetic groan.

Mikey peered into the wastebasket. His eyes popped wide. “Oh my god, is that blood?!”

Raph’s head shot up. “Is he bleeding internally?! Oh, when I get my three-fingered hands on that guy, I’m gonna—”

“Ahh!” Leo exclaimed, seizing everything in the medical cabinet in one giant armload and bringing it to the bedside cart as if sheer volume of medicine would be the cure. “What do you need, Donatello?!” he said, rapidly going through the labels on each bottle.

Master Splinter held up a paw for everyone to stop. He peered into the bucket of puke with an analytical eye. “Can I assume Donatello had his usual dish?” The Turtles all nodded. “Then, I believe this is not blood, but sriracha.”

Don’s brothers let out a collective sigh of relief, but that relief was short-lived, as Don’s abdomen spasmed and he cried out from the pain and curled around his stomach.

“Donatello, what do we do?!” Leo reiterated.

Through the pain, Don reached out and slid his pail of barf toward him. “…gonna have to… analyze… poison…”

“How do we do this, my son?” Splinter insisted.

The genius shifted, fighting his queasiness. “Get the microscope… swab some of the puke ona slide…” he managed before clutching at his stomach again.

“That’s really groty, Don,” Mikey put in. Raph took a warning swipe at him, and the others ignored him. Leo used a dropper to collect some of the liquid from the bucket and dripped it on a slide, covering it with the tiny piece of glass the way he’d seen Don always do, while Splinter located the microscope, brought it to the work table, and plugged it in.

“In the meantime… activated charcoal…” Don groaned and motioned to the pile of bottles Leo had brought over. Mikey went through them one by one, reading label after label, then setting them aside until he found one that looked like a possible match.

“Is this it?” he asked, holding the bottle before Donatello’s face.

Don winced. “I can see four of them… but I can’t focus enough… to read…” he managed before upchucking into the bucket again.

Leo focused the microscope, zooming in on the little blobs and squiggles. “Donatello, I don’t know what I’m looking for here…” When he got no immediate answer, he glanced over his shoulder. “Donatello?”

At that moment, Donnie’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body arched painfully up over the bed. Michelangelo dropped the bottle he was fiddling with and aided Raphael in holding him steady on the cot and rubbing his muscles, trying to release the spasm. Splinter moved to his head, holding it steady and whispering calming words.

“He’s having a seizure!” Raph announced, in case Leo hadn’t noticed.

The leader scowled. “This isn’t going to work if Donatello can’t tell us what we need to do. We’re going to take him somewhere he can get help, and fast!”

“Yeah, but who the heck could take care of a poisoned mutant turtle? A veterinarian?” Raphael snapped back, then blinked. “Oh.”

Mike pulled his turtle-comm out. “I’ll get Dr. Goodfellow on the horn.”

Don’s seizure thankfully ebbed off within another minute, at which point Leo ordered the rest of the team to help him load Donatello back in the Turtle Van. “To the zoo it is…”

……………

Dr. Jane Goodfellow met the turtles at the main gate of the zoo, letting the Turtle Van in so they could drive around to the back offices and the veterinary clinic. The doctor dashed into the clinic and returned wheeling out a gurney for the turtles to transfer their ill brother to, and raced him inside the clinic.

“Michelangelo told me he was poisoned. Do you know by what?” she asked. 

“Other than pizza, no,” Leonardo told her. “But Donatello said we needed to analyze his vomit… we have a sample of that in the van.” Don began to heave again, and a moment later, turned on his side and more of his stomach contents splattered across the linoleum. “…Or Donatello can just give you a fresh sample on the floor…”

“Sor-hic!-ry…” the ill turtle apologized.

“Don’t worry about it,” the vet replied, fetching a roll of paper towels to blot up the mess. “This is a veterinary clinic… This floor has seen much worse! In the meantime, what are his symptoms?”

“Nausea and vomiting, double vision and inability to focus his eyes, abdominal pain, and he had some kind of muscle spasm or seizure. That was when we called you.”

The doctor nodded. “It’s good that you did. Every minute counts when it comes to poisoning.” She shone a penlight in his eyes. “Yes, these are dilated, all right. And with the vision problems, I’d say it’s a shellfish-based toxin…” She hurriedly prepared a slide for the microscope to verify her suspicions. “No, it’s not just a food toxin… There’s something else mixed in as well that’s causing the muscle spasms and seizures...”

Don let out a groan and the vet stopped in her tracks, tsking at herself. “I’m so sorry, Donatello… I’m not accustomed to my patients being able to tell me their symptoms themselves! Do you have anything to add? Where do you have pain now?”

The genius turtle circled his stomach area with one hand. “…Consistent… strychnine…” 

“Strychnine…” she repeated, snapping her fingers and moving to the shelves, pulling a few bottles and a large beaker, into which she rapidly mixed them. “Sit him up, please,” she instructed Raph and Mikey. “Donatello, I’m going to need you to swallow all of this. Not gonna lie, it’s pretty foul. I’d advise you hold your nose, pretend it’s an Oreo milkshake, and just slam it back.”

Don did gag as the flask neared his beak and he caught a whiff of the concoction, but he clenched his eyes shut and dutifully gulped the mixture back. When it was all down, he stuck out his tongue and scraped at it with his fingers. “Ugh… hideous!”

The doctor brought over a glass of water for him, and a sympathetic expression. “Rinse your mouth out, but don’t swallow or drink it… The less that charcoal is diluted, the sooner it will absorb the toxins.”

“Is he gonna be alright, Doctor?” Mikey asked.

Dr. Goodfellow returned a warm grin. “He’ll be fine, though I’d like to monitor him for a few hours while the neurotoxin works its way out of his system. I’d offer to keep him here overnight, but unfortunately, this little clinic isn’t equipped with a cot for human, er, humanoid patients… and knowing some of you boys’ experience with cages, I’m betting you’d say no to a stay in one, even with a clean pet-bed and the door open.”

“You got that right, sister,” Raphael agreed. “You’d think for all our time behind bars, we’d be desensitized to it, but gosh darn it, we’ve never really acquired the taste …”

She nodded. “I’d call that understandable.”

“Do you need one of us to stay?” Leo asked, giving Don’s hand a squeeze.

“No, not unless you’d like to. Donatello should be ready to go home at about four o’clock.”

The leader nodded. “Good, then let’s get going. We’ve got some ground to cover.”

“Where are we going, bro?” Mikey asked, apprehensive at the steely look in Leo’s eyes. 

Even feisty Raphael looked a bit cowed at that expression.

“To track down Tiempo Malo, and have a little talk with him.” He turned and bowed to Dr. Goodfellow. “Thank you for taking care of our brother, Doctor.”

Leo and Mikey headed out the door, while Raph stayed behind to shake the doctor’s hand. “Thanks for everything. Not half bad for just a vet.”

The woman set her hands on her hips. “Now, what is that supposed to mean?!”

Donatello slapped a hand across his eyes. “Oh, Raphael, no…”

“Raphael, did you just insult her?!” Leo’s voice carried back.

“What?! I didn’t mean to! It was supposed to be a compliment!”

Dr. Goodfellow chuckled. “It’s all right. You picked that up from TV and movies, right? Where a doctor has to treat someone who’s injured, and they mention that they’re ‘just a veterinarian,’ or ‘just a dentist,’ when actually, they’re getting someone who’s gone through basic medical school, and then three more years of specialization in their field. People somehow equate treating a creature that’s less than human, or treating less than a whole person, as less of a doctor.”

Raphael blushed. “Uh, geez… Sorry about that. I had no idea! I guess that makes you more of a super-doctor! Why don’t they just put that in the job title so we know?”

“I don’t know!” she laughed back. “I’ll have to ask about that, see if we can’t get it implemented.”

“Anyway, thanks for looking after Donatello, Super-Doc!”

“My pleasure,” she said, then gave a wide yawn. “Excuse me! Though I am going to have to catch up on some sleep later! Time to fire up the coffee maker, I guess.”

Don perked up. “Coffee?”

She pointed in his face. “None for you.”

He groaned. “Cruel woman…”

…………

Gary sat behind his plant camouflage on the fire escape exulting in his victorious poisoning of Donatello for nearly an hour. Then the endorphin rush wore off, and he just continued to sit there… because what else was there to do? He’d fulfilled his purpose, accomplished his end goal. True, he would have rather watched the turtle writhing in agony like all the rats he’d had to experiment on in developing his poison, and he didn’t even get to watch the full effects, as they led his victim out the back way and then from the alley to their weird-looking van, and once that was around the corner… it was over.

All of it was over. The culmination of three years of work and planning… just like that.

He sighed. What was he going to do now? He couldn’t go back to Vinnie’s… If he wasn’t outright fired for poisoning a customer, he’d have a lot of awkward explaining to do… which, he’d rather just… not. Plus, he’d’ve surely pissed off these particular regular customers… heavily muscled customers. Heavily muscled mutant customers. Heavily muscled mutant customers with swords and nun-chucks and other potentially deadly weapons. And they knew his face. He blanched. He’d made some very dangerous enemies. Maybe this revenge thing hadn’t been such a good idea after all…

He was pretty sure he’d had to list his address on his application to Vinnie’s… He would have to move. How much of his stuff could he pack up tonight, he wondered? How much of it could he just ditch? How light would he have to travel? How heavily did those turtles survey the area? They only came out at night, right? So he could grab his stuff during the day…

It occurred to him he was getting a little paranoid. He should go, but the Turtles wouldn’t be on his trail that fast, and he really needed to stop jumping at shadows before he drove himself nuts. He even allowed himself a little chuckle at how silly he was being.

All that ground to a halt when the weird yellow and green shelled van came screeching back down the street, parking in the alley beside the pizza parlor. Gary’s heart tried to exit his mouth and he startled backward, losing his footing on the metal stairs behind him. After crashing down one flight, he got his feet under him and brought his binoculars—now sporting a cracked lens—up to his face.

Oh, that was not good. Oh, those were three very ticked-off-looking turtles. They were looking around the alley. One of them pointed, and they all ran around the back corner, where he’d run when he left the shop. They looked like they were tracking him.

But surely they couldn’t… not over concrete and asphalt… What kind of trail could he possibly have left??

They crossed the street where he had, to get to his perch.

He swore. Mind on all those swords and prongs and spinning sticks, he pounded his way up the fire escape. They would never think to look for him on the roof, surely! Right?

Wrong. He heard, “Hey! There he goes!” just as he swung up onto the roof. He could hear their loud conversation as they thundered up the fire escape. Running to the other side of the building, he looked around in desperation. There, between the two buildings—a laundry line strung across the top floors! If he could swing over and climb up to the top of the next building, he could use the roof access to get down, or at least hide behind it!

Sitting on the edge, he reached down, seizing both ropes, and clenched his eyes shut as he scooted his butt off the building and toward potential death. Assured that he wasn’t immediately plummeting to his death, he swung his weight forward, going hand-over-hand on the rope, until, right in the middle, he heard a _snap!_ in the line behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder to see the line rapidly fraying, and he let out a yelp as it lost tension altogether, the rope sang through its pulley, and he went swinging and crashing into the brownstone wall. For a second, his toes caught the window sill of the laundry line’s owner, then he was toppling end over end. He would have let out a scream, but suddenly his windpipe was blocked by his binoculars’ strap as it caught on a pigeon spike strip. He choked for a moment, scrabbling for purchase, then plummeted again as the nail bent, dropping him into an open, mostly-full dumpster below him. It was a mercifully soft landing, except for clipping his head on the closed half of the lid on his way down, knocking him cold. The other half came down, not banging shut only due to a discarded blanket draped over the side, and filled trash bags rolled and piled over the man.

The Turtles appeared a moment later, coming down the fire escape of the second building, having easily leapt the gap. 

“Where did he go? He was just here!”

“I’m telling you, bros, he’s gotta have some freaky time-warping ability! He probably stopped time, or made it, like, so slow he could walk right past us, but to us, he’d be going so fast, we wouldn’t even see him!”

“Michelangelo, there is no evidence that Gary can do that.”

“Then why does he have a super-villain name?”

“And more importantly, why isn’t he here?”

“Raphael, check that dumpster.”

“Blucch… Well, look at that. Full of trash. What a surprise.”

“Do you think he could have, like, burrowed down in there? Like a mole-man?”

“Go poke around in there.”

“You’re the one with those long katanas, you go poke around in the garbage!”

“Just do it, would you?”

“Here, I’ve got a better idea…” The red-banded turtle flipped his sai around, using the pommel to bang repeatedly against the side of the dumpster. “Olly olly oxen free! Anybody in there?”

While he got no response from the dumpster, several lights came on in windows of the apartments around them.

“Hey! Knock it off!”

“What’s goin’ on down there?!” 

“Cut the racket!”

Raphael gave a sheepish grin. “Ah, New Yorkers. My people,” he said to the fourth wall, then called up toward the windows. “Sorry! We’ll bang around more quietly…”

Leonardo shook his head, heading out of the alleyway. “Let’s keep looking. I just don’t understand where he could have gone!”

“Too bad Donatello’s out of commission. He’d probably have cobbled together some gadget that picks up recent footprints, or smells out traces of strychnine or something by now.”

“Speaking of Donatello,” Michelangelo said, picking up and examining a pair of cracked and slightly dented binoculars with a ripped strap, “do you think he’d like these?”

“Probably. It’s amazing what people just throw out.”

…………

When Gary came to, it was to the stench of garbage, loud machine rumbles, and a sensation of shifting gravity. He let out a yell as the dumpster was emptied into a waiting garbage truck. 

Lucky for him, one of the men operating the truck heard him and helped him climb out 

“How in the world did you end up in there?” he asked once Gary’s feet had hit the ground.

He rubbed his head, where the throbbing indicated some impact. “Not really sure…”

“You’d best head home,” the driver said as Gary shambled slowly away. “Have yourself a nice shower and sleep off the rest of that hangover!”

Gary blinked for a second, his mind flashing back to hanging over the side of the building to grab the clothesline. Hangover, alright. The thought made him laugh, then quickly stop, because it hurt his head.

…………

A couple of weeks later, after Donatello was fully recovered from his poisoning incident, April showed up at the lair with a little more than just the weekly groceries.

“My stool pigeon caught word of some evidence of dirty dealings that could possibly put Senator Alford away for the rest of his life. There’s records of it stored at the governmental building on 44th. He said Alford was sending men to ‘take care of the problem’ tonight!”

“And we can rely on this guy’s information?” Raphael asked skeptically.

“Absolutely. Stool Pigeon Pete has been my best source for bunches of my scoops! His word is gold… almost literally; his talk costs a pretty penny!”

Leonardo nodded. “We’ll see if we can’t get that investment to pay off, then. We’ll check it out tonight.”

…………

Mopping the floor. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but Gary had to admit it was cathartic. Thirty floors of cathartic was a little backbreaking, but it felt good to be doing something normal for work. No poison, no vengeance. No people, for the most part, since his job of cleaning the building was after hours. Now and then, someone or other would pop in to grab a document on overtime, but the later it got, the less of folks he saw, and he was fine with that.

So he was a little surprised to see a man in the building after midnight, with a large duffel bag over his shoulder, and he looked more than a little on edge to Gary. 

“Pulling an all-nighter?” he asked as the man hustled past.

“Uh…” the man halted, searching for words, clearly not prepared to be spoken to. “Naw. Just in and out. Settin’ something up.”

Gary nodded. “Mind the floor, ’s still wet.”

“Right. Thanks.”

After a few minutes and half a hallway mopped, the man reappeared, but from another direction. That wasn’t so out of the ordinary, if he’d had to circle around to the back offices. He wasn’t carrying anything now, and practically power-walked as he went. 

“Hey, watch that floor!” Gary warned and the guy startled, his loafer slipping slightly as he tried to halt himself.

“Oh, right. Uhm…” He looked around, as if to see if anyone else would see him. “Say, this part of town gets pretty bad ‘round two o’clock. If I was you, I’d knock off early and be sure I was home by then.”

Gary gave him a blank look. “Well… I’m probably gonna be here until well past the witching hour…”

“Do yourself a favor. Knock off early tonight. Before two.”

“Right… I’ll… I’ll think about that.”

The man nodded, pointing at him as he headed for the elevator. “Two o’clock.”

“Yeah, I got it,” he replied, shaking his head as he went back to mopping.

He had to wonder why the guy was so adamant about him leaving, but really, he couldn’t afford to get fired. Bad neighborhood or not, he would just have to stay put.

He’d finished three quarters of the way around this level when the elevator opened again, and four lean, mean, green, shell-backed fighting machines stepped out. “Are you sure this is the right floor, Donatello?”

“According to the layout of the building, this should be it, and—” 

“Augh!”

The Turtles glanced up to see Gary waddling awkwardly away from them.

“It’s Tiempo Malo!”

“Get him!”

All four broke into a run, and as Gary unlocked and ducked into an office, the terrapins quickly found themselves losing their footing, tripping, slipping and sliding, a low-friction mass of plastrons and shells, skidding past the office on the freshly mopped floor.

“Tiempo Malo, nothing… the guy ought to call himself El Piso Mojado!” one of them complained as, groaning, the group tried to untangle and right themselves to resume the chase for their prey.*

Gary shut the door behind himself, scanning the dark room for a place to hide. He rushed to the window—barred, so no outlet, and bringing back too many memories of his prison term. There was a heavy wooden desk—too obvious—and a row of filing cabinets. He tried the handle on one, and to his supreme joy, it swung open, and at the bottom, if he moved a pile of folders to the desk, he could just crush his pudgy body inside and swing the door shut after him.

Not a moment too soon, because the lock on the office door clicked, and the voices of the teenage heroes filled the room.

“Are you sure it was this room?”

“Pretty certain. He must be in here. There’s nowhere else he could have gone!”

“He’s not behind the desk. Man, whoever this is, they’ve got a real backlog…” Raph reported, fingering the high stacks of files and wincing as he knocked some of the stack on to the floor. “Whoops…”

“Darn that dude! He used his mondo crazy time powers to get past us again!”

“Michelangelo, for the last time, he does not have any superpowers! He’s just a guy!”

Donatello swung open a cabinet, then closed it again. “These are floor to ceiling with files… there’s no room for anyone to hide in here.”

Gary held as still as he could, though his leg was starting to cramp from the position he was in. Beads of sweat started to gather and roll down his face. The handle of the cabinet where he was hiding rattled slightly, then the door started to swing out. _I’m caught. They’ve got me. I'm going back to prison…_

“And if they did, they’d really have to squash themselves in there.”

“You saw how big that Gary guy is! There’s no way he’d fit in there.”

“For someone his size, you’d have to move at least this many files out of those cabinets. There’s just no room.”

“So you’re agreeing with Michelangelo and Raphael that Tiempo Malo is using some kind of time powers to get past us?”

“I couldn’t say for sure, but we’ve seen stranger things happen.”

The cabinet door swung back shut. “Well, I’ve got to give you that… Let’s check the other offices around this one, then get back to the mission.”

Gary couldn’t believe his luck. He refused to. The way his life went, the one-track losing streak, he wasn’t about to trust luck. The Turtles knew he was there; they were just toying with him, making a further mockery of him. Still, he didn’t move. His left leg was in agony, but he didn’t dare move, in case those reptiles were standing there, waiting for him to come out.

After a small eternity of waiting, he couldn’t take the cramping in his leg anymore. Caught or not, he gave up. Swinging the cabinet door slowly open, he awaited a call to tell him to freeze, or for a weapon to slam or slice into him. When none came, certain he would be snapped up in a trap at any moment, he clambered out of the file cabinet, most of the remaining files on the shelves he’d occupied sliding out with him and spilling their contents on the floor. Still no call that he’d been apprehended. The euphoria of it made him giggle, but he tried to stifle it as best he could.

On tippie-toe, he snuck into the hall. Maybe the man was right after all, and he should take the rest of the night off. Did he know the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were going to be here?

“There he goes!” the leader shouted.

Gary went wide-eyed and started to run… well, tried to, and ended up sliding on his own squeaky clean mop job, ricocheting off the walls as he zinged down the hall and crashed through a door. That was coming out of his pay. He toppled awkwardly into a pile of cardboard boxes, groaning as they collapsed all around him. 

BEEP, said something above him. BEEP. BEEP.

He scrambled around, finding his feet and facing a set of red numbers, like an alarm clock. Except that they seemed to be counting down. Why would a clock be counting do—?

He barreled out of the room, straight into the plastron of the Turtle leader, who looked shocked, but seized him by the shoulders regardless. “Hold it right there, Tiempo Malo!”

“There’s a BOMB!” he shouted in the turtle’s face.

“You rigged a bomb?!” the red-banded one hollered in immediate response.

He shook his head frantically. “No! I didn’t, but there was this guy who was here and he told me—what time is it?!”

“You’re the time guy, dude, don’t you know?!” the orange one asked.

Incredulity scrunched up the man’s face. “What are you even talking about?!”

“Time guy, with time powers, time bomb, very suspish…” Raphael came back with.

“What?!” Gary gave him an uncomprehending stare, then swiveled around to look at the clock above the elevator. “Oh my god, we’ve got like two minutes to get out of here!”

“Where is it?” Leonardo demanded, and Gary pointed over his shoulder at where he had crash-landed. 

“Gary, take the stairs down! Get out of here!” Donatello told him, giving him a shove toward the emergency exit as he passed, running to get to the bomb.

The man’s jaw worked open and shut like a novelty singing trophy fish low on batteries. His enemy, the guy he had poisoned, and his brothers, who were after him with a vengeance because of _his_ vengeance… were letting him go? Were saving him, from a bomb?

The word ‘bomb’ crossing his mind again spurred him into action, and down the stairs he ran (except for the flights where he tripped and fell/rolled).

……………

“Can you stop it, Donatello?”

Donatello fiddled with the device, then handed Leonardo two AAs. “A bomb this amateurish? Already stopped. But what worries me is that this bomb was set up against a load-bearing pillar.”

“And that means?”

“There’s eight load-bearing pillars in this building. Take those out, and the whole thing goes down. There may only be seven more, but even just taking the batteries out, there’s no way we can reach and find all of them in… Thirty seven seconds! Yikes!”

“Everybody out and off the roof! Now!” Leonardo ordered. 

……………

Puffing like he’d run a marathon, Gary emerged from the building and kept going until he was across the street. Then the building exploded, the blast knocking him off his feet. He let that momentum roll him onto his side where he rapidly got his feet back under him and resumed his sprint, to the complaint of his heaving lungs, for another couple blocks, debris raining down all around him.

When he stopped, he turned around to witness the pile of rubble the building had been. He rubbed his hands across his sweaty, balding pate, scanning for any sign of the famous turtle ninjas. It’d be a shameful title to add to his already less than stellar resume’, getting the heroes of New York City killed in an explosion.

“WEW,” went a police siren right behind him, and his body sagged.

“Of course…” he muttered, before a female voice interrupted him.

“Sir, NYPD… I’m gonna need you to put your hands over your head, please.”

Gary complied, holding back tears. The officer patted him down.

“We picked a heck of a spot to stop for a coffee break,” her partner, a second, deeper-voiced 

black woman, said from inside the patrol car. “View was a straight shot at the government 

building, and guess who we saw running out just before it exploded?”

Gary was too shocked to reply. The officer told him to put his hands behind him, which he did with no resistance. It wasn’t even him, but he knew he’d screwed up yet again somehow, and probably deserved to go to jail. Because that was just how his life went. Guilty, until proven innocent.

“Sir, you are under arrest for arson and destruction of public property. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed by the courts for you. Do you understand these rights as I have stated them?”

He tried to say, “Yes,” but his throat was so dry, only the barest whisper came out, and the woman kept looking at him for confirmation, so he nodded.

“Did us a favor, if you ask me,” the second officer commented dryly. “Got rid of that damn eyesore of ‘70s architecture.”

But Gary couldn’t appreciate the humor.

…………

He was walked into the courtroom in handcuffs. The audience seating was surprisingly full; not only the media turned out, but all sorts of people interested in the case and any drama that might arise from it. 

There was only one face that Gary recognized, from seeing him on TV and in the paper, and that was of Wyatt Alford, one of the state’s senators, a white-haired man of over seventy with a sharp, aquiline nose. The press flocked around him until Gary took his place at the defense booth, then moved in on him, but, not saying anything, they quickly bored of him and went back to seeking quotes from the senator. Gary couldn’t guess what business the senator had there… Maybe he was a court trials aficionado? Or perhaps he’d lost something in the explosion and was there to see Gary put away for it, though the man hardly regarded him on his entry.

“City of New York vs du Schnozel, Honorable Judge Holly Humboldt presiding. All rise.”

The young woman took her place at the podium, leaning against it with a rather bored look. “Be seated. Court is now in session,” she said and banged the gavel. “Gary M. du Schnozel, you are accused of three accounts of first-degree murder, seven accounts of felony manslaughter, three accounts of grand theft automotive, thirteen traffic violations, and two counts of… shooting greased, overfed waterfowl from a t-shirt gun onto a public highway? Hm, that’s a new one on me, but it must be on the books or it wouldn’t be in here. New York, huh? What a town…”

“Wait, wait, wait… Your Honor, I didn’t do any of that!”

“Mr. du Schnozel, your innocence will be determined by the court—”

“No, no… I mean, that’s not me. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“That’s what they all say…”

Gary tsked, trying to get his point through. “I’m Gary Peter du Schnozel, not Gary M.”

“Aw my gahhhhsh,” the judge moaned, “we’ve got the wrong du Schnozel! Bailiff, if you please, bring me Mr. Gary P. du Schnozel’s file. Pardon us for the misunderstanding, Mr. du Schnozel.”

He waved a hand. “’s fine. I get his mail all the time.”

Some of the audience filtered out of the room at the mistake, but Senator Alford remained.

The bailiff returned with a different file, passing it to the judge. She reviewed it, then stated, “Gary _P_. du Schnozel, you are charged with one count of felony arson, and three counts of felony property damage. You are accused of using multiple explosive devices to blow up the New York City Federal Accounts and Records building, and damages incurred on three cars, totaled by falling debris from said building. I see you have declined legal council. May I ask the reason?”

He looked at his shoes. With a depressed sigh and the air of a man resigned to going back to prison, he mumbled, “Didn’t think it would help, Your Honor.”

“Are you sure you wish to forfeit this right, sir?”

He nodded. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Very well. Mr. du Schnozel, please take the stand.”

Gary allowed himself to be sworn in, then flatly and emotionlessly, gave his account of what had happened at the building that night. Then the lawyer for the prosecution stepped up and started trying to poke holes in his story, trying to paint him as irrational, delusional, even a maniac. After all, no one else had seen this man whom Gary claimed had likely set the bombs, perhaps Gary had made him up. He shrugged at this. He didn’t care if anyone believed him. Perhaps the man was as made up as these supposed ninja turtles that were chasing him all over the building, the same delusion the whole city seemed to be suffering from.

A burst of red crossed Gary’s vision at that. They could paint him as an arsonist, they could paint him as a loony, but to deny the existence of the being that turned his life into a living Hell for the last three years, and that much of the city had witnessed and cheered for… Tiempo Malo was not going to stand for that. 

Figuratively, anyway. In the more literal sense, he rose to his feet, slammed a hand on the bench and stabbed a finger into the prosecutor’s face.

“Now, look, you… Those turtles are as real as this box! It wasn’t any phantasm that tied me up and left me for the police! It wasn’t a figment of my imagination that I spent months tracking down and trying to inflict revenge on! It wasn’t delirium or dementia or mania or whatever the hell you want to call it that sent me out of that building before the bombs could go off! That turtle made my life Hell, and then turned around and saved it! And if you dare think that he doesn’t exist—!”

The judge banged her gavel before he could continue. “Order!” But at the same moment, the courtroom doors burst open, admitting a wide, but well-muscled being in a pinstriped suit and purple bandana to the room. 

“…well, maybe you can ask him yourself,” Gary finished, shocked, but now feeling a bit smug given Donatello’s impeccable dramatic timing. Perhaps he did have some kind of time-power as the Turtles thought.

“Stop the trial, please!”

Judge Humboldt blinked at him, confused by the odd appearance and the interruption. “And… you are?”

“Donatello Hamato, Your Honor,” the turtle stated and bowed formally to her. “Please forgive the late intrusion. It’s no easy task stuffing a shell into a three-piece suit.”

“And, what is your reason for stopping the proceedings, sir?”

“To make a recommendation that the charges against Mr. du Schnozel be dropped. You could call me a surprise witness for the defense.”

“So, surprise!” added another turtle from the back of the room as he and two others filed in after him.”

“Aw, righteous… I love surprise parties!”

“Quiet, you two…” the third ordered, herding them to stand behind the last bench in the courtroom.

“Order!” the judge demanded, cracking the gavel so that the murmuring crowd settled. “Mr. Prosecutor, you may resume your questioning.”

The prosecutor, goggling at Donatello, backed away. “Uhm… No… no further questions at this time, Your Honor.”

“Then we will hear from Mr. Hamato. Mr. du Schnozel, you are dismissed; Mr. Hamato, please take the stand, raise your right hand and place your left on the Bible. Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

Don glanced at her nervously. “To be honest, Your Honor, I don’t believe in God. My brothers and I were raised Buddhist-Shinto, but my true beliefs lie in science.”

The judge nodded approvingly, though slightly annoyed at the delay. “I have a book of law here; would you prefer to swear in on that?”

“That would be fine,” he agreed, and affirmed the vow. 

“Mr. Hamato, please recount the events of the night of November 13th of this year for the court, please.”

“Yes, ma’am. You see, my brothers and I had received a tip that someone was going to break into the Accounts and Records building in order to remove certain documents that would be… very detrimental to their political career. We arrived at approximately 1:32 a.m., and ran into Gary here, who we have had previous foul dealings with, and gave chase, thinking he was the thief.”

“You already had a connection with the defendant?”

“Yes, ma’am. He worked at a pizza parlor we frequent. He poisoned me.” 

The judge’s eyes widened. “For what reason?” Gary scowled and raised a hand to object. 

Donatello wasn’t even going to mention how he’d foiled the burglary Gary was a part of? But Humboldt wouldn’t let him get a word in. “Don’t interrupt, Mr. du Schnozel. Continue, Mr. Hamato.”

“Well, we don’t know the reason, really. We haven’t had time to sit down and discuss the matter with him.”

“Proceed…”

“We chased after him, but he managed to give us the slip, which he has a particular talent in doing. So instead, we went to check on the documents, to see if they had been removed.”

“And had they?”

“No, Your Honor. But we were about to find out why…”

Senator Alford stood and with a resonant tone, called out, “Your Honor, objection, why are we listening to this… Turtle?” Gary thought he looked a bit sweatier than before. Nervous, maybe? “Surely we cannot trust the word of a talking animal!”

“You wanna bet on which one of us is the talking animal here, bub?!” came a comment from the back of the room, followed by a lot of shushing. “Sorry… slipped out,” Raphael confessed with an abashed shrug. “Force of habit…”

“Because I requested it, Senator. And the audience is not allowed to pose objections. Please resume your seat.” She paused, sighing. “Proceed, Mr. Hamato.” 

“Yes, ma’am. As we were coming back to our entrance point, Mr. du Schnozel ran from one of the rooms straight into us, looking panicked, saying there was a bomb in the room. I told Gary to run to the emergency exit, then found the bomb where he’d pointed it out, and disarmed it. Simple device, but hooked up to a lot of C4 explosive, enough to blow up the load-bearing pillar it was attached to. I realized there were likely more bombs, and that we wouldn’t have time to defuse them and had to leave the building immediately. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough time for us to save it.” 

“And you do not believe that Mr. du Schnozel set these explosives?”

“No, ma’am. I believe that if he had set the bombs himself, he wouldn’t have stuck around mopping the floor if he knew they were going to go off at two o’clock.”

The senator stood up again. “There, you see! It’s the fault of these animals that so many valuable documents were destroyed! For shame!”

“OR-DER!” the judge hollered at him. “Senator, one more outburst from you, and I am finding you in contempt of court and having you removed!”

Donatello reached into his coat pocket, retrieving a sheaf of paper. “You know, it is quite a coincidence for Senator Alford to be present and so vocal about Gary’s case, when the documents he’s so concerned about happen to be about him,” he said smugly, handing them over to the judge.

Alford tried to lunge from his chair, only to be pushed back down by a three-fingered hand. “I suggest you stay,” the blue-banded turtle insisted.

“So you did remove the documents,” Humboldt said to the turtle on the stand.

“No, ma’am.”

“Then how do you have these?”

Don chuckled. “Oh, there’s multiple offsite backup copies of every document in the archives. I just subverted the firewall, cracked a password, and printed these out from home.”

The senator looked about to wet himself.

“Yeah! What did you think this is, 1987?” the sarcastic turtle muttered at him. 

Judge Humboldt began reading over the file Donatello had presented her with. Only a couple pages in, her hand went to her mouth to keep her lunch down. “Bailiff, please detain the senator and take him to holding. Senator Alford, you are hereby under arrest for conspiracy to commit arson, destruction of public property, child trafficking, and conspiracy against Mr. du Schnozel. And that’s just off the top of my head! All charges against Mr. du Schnozel are hereby dropped, and you are free to go. Mr. Hamato, please leave the information of where you can be reached with the court recorder; we’ll need your testimony at Mr. Alford’s trial. This court is adjourned.” 

The gavel rapped, and the courtroom burst into commotion as everyone started talking to or about the senator as he was ushered out of the room. A couple reporters asked Gary a question or two, then went chasing after the mob surrounding the senator. As the courtroom emptied out, Gary and Donatello were left facing each other. Don gave him a grin, which Gary felt compelled to return, but could only utter the singular question on his mind. “Why?”

Don looked as though the answer should be obvious. “Because you didn’t do it.”

“Yeah, but… After what I did to you? You could have just left me to rot.”

“I’ll admit, doing what’s right isn’t always what would be my first choice, but it’s better that proper justice is carried out.” The turtle offered his hand, and Gary shook it as Don’s brothers joined them.

“I suppose, then, I owe you a pizza. One not laced with strychnine.”

He received an ill look in response. “I never thought I would ever say it, but… Please, don’t mention pizza!”

Gary nodded. “That’s understandable… Do you like pho? There’s a pho place right across the street…”

……………

A trend exists among Asian restaurants to include a terrible pun in the name about their specialty, like Wok The Line or Dim Sum And Then Some, and this one was following in the tradition, calling itself the unfortunately unforgettable Un-Pho: Get A Bowl.

And so it was that one middle-aged man and four teenage turtles sat down to bowls of broth at two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon to talk.

“All right, du Schnozel! We’ve got a bone to pick with you!” the red-masked brother started in on him. “First of all, why did you poison our brother? Second of all… du Schnozel? Seriously? Sometimes a legal change of name is in order…”

“Third of all, how do your crazy time powers work?” Michelangelo took over.

Gary’s face screwed up in confusion. “Time powers? I don’t have any time powers…”

Three glares were turned on Mikey. “What? He kept disappearing on us! And he’s got the super-villain name and everything, right? Tiempo Malo!” His brothers’ eyes bore down on him, and he looked to Gary for rescue. “At least tell me you’re actually a masked wrestler…”

For the first time in a long time, Gary felt some genuine, untainted amusement. “Some of the Dragons called me that because I’m so old!” he chuckled.

“You were a Purple Dragon,” Leo more stated than asked. 

“Not really… I was part of the crew on some jobs, for a little extra money on the side, but I was never really part of the gang. Not that that mattered to Donatello.”

Don blinked at him. “Me?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember! You’re the one that ruined my life that night after all! Burglary? Brooklyn? March 21, three years ago?”

The purple-banded turtle shook his head. “Sorry…”

“Aw, come on! You must remember something! Wouldn’t you know somebody you got arrested?”

He shrugged. “We foil an average of 84 burglaries a week. Picking out one on that information alone only narrows it down to 73 percent…”

“Donatello has an eidetic memory,” Leonardo added. “If he saw you, he’d remember.”

“Hang on…” The genius rose from his chair and circled around behind Gary to stare at his bald pate. “Oh, now I recognize you!”

“Seriously?!” the man exclaimed out of dismay.

“And that one B and E arrest made you claim vengeance on Donatello?” Leo asked.

Gary glowered at him. “That one arrest connected me to a bunch of others. I lost my job, I lost my house, I lost my wife… It was the sneeze that brought down my extremely rickety house of cards.” He paused, considering, and sighed, “Though looking back on it, none of it was that great…” He looked up at Don. “So I latched on to you as the source, and kind of got obsessed with causing you as much pain as you caused me.”

“Not cool, dude.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Donatello reached across the table to touch his hand. “The thing about vengeance is that it can become a cycle. You take revenge on me, I take revenge on you, you take revenge on me for taking vengeance on you, and so on. If no one stops it, it’ll just keep going, and hurt others along the way, even yourself. Let me tell you a story about a man called Oroku Saki…” 

Gary listened raptly to the tale of the evil man and his quest of destruction, and how that evil and vengeance continued to fester within him, leading to his eventual defeat at the hands of the Turtles.

“See, Gary? If I spent my time bent on vengeance, none of us would have gotten out of that building. I’d have gone after you instead of checking the state of the bombs that were about to go off,” Donatello concluded, standing. His brothers followed suit, both lunch and lecture concluded.

Gary rose to shake the turtle’s hand. “Thank you… for the lesson and for letting me get out of that building!” He paused, thinking. “Guess I’m out of a job again…” he said and reached for a newspaper on the next table over, flipping to the back for the classifieds.

“Well, just so happens, we know a pizza parlor that’s short a good chef…” the red-banded ninja quipped, examining his nails.

Gary’s eyes widened. “Who, Vinnie? Come on, he’d never take me back after that fiasco…”

“Sure he would! Vinnie’s got a heart the size of Manhattan!” Donatello agreed.

“We’ll help explain the situation to him,” Leonardo offered. “As long as you’re willing to apologize, he’ll probably welcome you back with open arms.”

Gary shook his head. “The poor, naïve chump… I guess somebody’s gotta be there to look after him.”

“Maybe you can even talk Donatello into having pizza again, eventually.” At the mention, Don slapped his hands over his mouth to hold back a gag. “But not any time soon.”

The genius pardoned himself, then added, “The behavior will go extinct over time…”

Raphael stuck a finger in Gary’s face. “Just make sure the Strychnine Special is off the menu! Otherwise, we’ll be giving you _un malo tiempo_!”

……………

The Turtles could read Vinnie like a book. Vinnie had been a little dismayed about the whole incident, but with the Turtles vouching for him, he was willing to give Gary another chance. He still worked the graveyard shift; all the late activity over the years, he found working in the dead of night rather suited him. For the most part, it was quiet, but the old adage about the city’s chronic insomnia held true… There was always someone craving a pie at four a.m.

So it wasn’t much of a surprise that a rowdy little cluster of teens with various states of shaved heads and wildly-dyed hair showed up in the dead of night as Gary was wiping down the counter for the millionth time. “Evening, folks. What’ll it be?”

To his credit, Gary only flinched a little when the gun was cocked in his face. “How ‘bout all the money in the cash register, pops?” one of them demanded.

Gary sighed and rolled his eyes. “Son, put that away… This is a pizza parlor, not the First National.”

“Wha—?” the boy said, his brows drawing together. One of his fellow gangsters grabbed his arm and forced his aim down. “Hey! What d’you think you’re doing?!”

“What the hell are _you_ doin’?!” the second retorted, waving a hand in Gary’s direction. “Es _Tiempo_ , muchacho! He’s one of our own!”

Gary gave him a lopsided grin. “Hey, Carlos. Blue now, huh?” he said, indicating the boy’s fauxhawk. The one who’d pulled the gun backed away to merge with the group, still looking confused.

“How you been, old man? Haven’t seen you on a job in…” Carlos paused to think. “…un largo tiempo!”

“Yeah, gave that up.”

“Too bad. Say, you ever want back, you come find me.”

“Nah… I’ve gone straight. You’d be surprised how relaxing just doing work with no strings attached and without having to look over your shoulder all the time can be. Ya know, Vinnie’s still got job openings for the afternoon, if you need…”

Carlos nodded hesitantly. “Yeah… I’ll think about it. But since we know you’re here now, we’ll call this Dragon territory. The newbies’ll leave you alone.”

Gary chuckled as the shop bell rang again. “Thanks, but… I’ve got some other clientele that might object to that.” He chin-nodded at the four turtle ninjas as they filed in. “Mornin’, boys. Be with you in a sec.”

“Hey, Gary!” the turtles called, waving.

Carlos’s eyes bugged out. “Tiempo, you know those guys?!”

“Oh, yeah… they’re regulars. Despite a little misunderstanding between us, I might even call them friends.”

“Right…” Carlos muttered, edging his way along the counter away from the teenage mutants. “Ya know, I think we’ve… got somewhere else to be… Muchachos, vamanos!” he called to the others in an alarmed tone. Seeing the Turtles themselves, they hurriedly followed him out the door, not noticing one of the reptiles divesting the gunman of his weapon.

Gary chuckled and wandered over to the Turtles’ table. “How’s it goin’, guys? And look who finally managed to set a toe back in this place!”

Donatello looked up at him with a weak grin. 

Gary pulled out his order pad and pen. “You ready to get back on the horse again?”

“I’m trying,” Don said with a shrug. “Just a small cheese for me, please.”

As the others decided on their orders, Leonardo asked him, “And how about you, _Tiempo Malo_? How’s life treating you?”

“Good times,” he said with a wide smile. “Good times.”

…………

*El Piso Mojado = the Wet Floor

**Author's Note:**

> My Spanish is apparently a little off-kilter and phrases dealing with time don't run the same way the rest of the language does, so forgive any weird Spanglish phrases... I tried to head the worst of them off at the pass. El Tiempo Malo does not mean 'the bad time,' so much as it means bad weather, but I can't let that name go and I am so freaking done with this story right now... It's just going to have to be what it is!


End file.
